


Musketeer March

by sternenblumen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Birthday Party, Celebrations, Cold, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Nightmares, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Relationship, Sewing, Sharing a Bed, Sleep, Sleep Deprivation, Sleeping Together, Slice of Life, Winter, hunger, musketeer march
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29781666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenblumen/pseuds/sternenblumen
Summary: Fics for Privateerstudies's Musketeer March event!Day 1- Sewing: Starting it off with some soft Constance & d'Artagnan :).Day 2 - Ice/cold: Some Porthos angstDay 5 - Athos + sleep: Platonic bed sharing and helping Athos deal.Day 7 - Wine: A birthday celebration for PorthosDay 13 - Favourite Ship: Constance has a bad dream.
Relationships: Flea (The Musketeers 2014)/Porthos du Vallon, d'Artagnan/Constance Bonacieux
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	1. Day 1 - Sewing

**Author's Note:**

> _Day 1 - Sewing: Constance and d'Artagnan discuss skills._

Constance stopped in the hallway, perking up her ears. She wasn’t quite sure what she had heard but only a few moments later, it repeated, and she was able to identify it as d'Artagnan’s voice. And he was cursing Heaven and Hell.

She grinned at his tone – it was frustration, not distress, as far as she could tell – and went to investigate.

At her knock, his tirade stopped, and a moment later, he opened the door. He was shirtless, and Constance felt her cheeks heat up at the sight.

He was not immune to the inappropriateness of this either, and he quickly took a step back and crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Constance,” he said, “I’m– sorry, I was just–” He made a helpless gesture towards his bed, then seemed to realise he had exposed his chest again and quickly returned the arm to its previous position.

Constance took a deep breath and pushed down on the embarrassed feeling. “Oh, don’t apologise,” she said resolutely. “I’ve seen men shirtless before – including you.”

He smiled sheepishly, no doubt remembering all about the first day of their acquaintance as well. “That’s true,” he replied with a shrug, though the arms stayed where they were.

Before silence could settle down and get uncomfortable, Constance forged ahead: “What is the matter?” she asked. “You were cursing up quite a storm right now.”

“Oh, that …” He looked down apologetically. “I was just venting some frustration.”

“That’s what I guessed,” she said, raising an eyebrow. Stance and tone made it pretty clear that she wanted to know more, so she didn’t say anything else and just waited him out.

Finally, he sighed, dropped his arms and moved back to his bed, picking up something. “Soldiering seems to be hard on clothes,” he said, more or less musing aloud. “And you know, I don’t quite have the coin to buy a lot.” He held out the thing to her.

It turned out to be his shirt, and it was indeed in a sad state. He had mended it several times already, from the looks of it, but there was a large tear running down the side of it. Constance looked at it critically – she was not a seamstress but her sewing skills were fair after growing up with three brothers. Back at home, there was not a day where her mother and she didn’t have to mend some torn shirts or breeches. It could still be saved but probably didn’t have much use left in it if he continued to be so rough on it. “Poor thing,” she said sympathetically, and it was not quite clear if she was referring to the shirt or d'Artagnan. “But I can take care of that for you.”

D'Artagnan startled and shook his head quickly. “No, you don’t have to,” he protested. “I can do it myself.”

“I know I don’t have to. I was offering.” She took another, closer look at the stitches that had closed some of the earlier rips. “Though that isn’t bad work,” she added, flashing him a smile.

He blushed again. “Well, farm work isn’t easy on clothes, either.” He shrugged. “After my mother died, my father and me had to do our own mending most of the time. We sometimes gave it to a neighbour as an exchange for helping them out with some work but I got enough experience doing it myself.”

Constance hummed, itching to reach out and place a hand on his arm or do some other gesture to comfort him – she knew that speaking of his family still smarted. The tone in his voice when mentioning his mother said that this was an old wound that had healed as much as it probably ever would, even if it did not do so without scarring. But his father’s loss was still fresh and tender.

She did not reach out, though. The situation was inappropriate enough without that. “Maybe you can become a seamstress if being a Musketeer doesn’t work out for you, then,” she teased him instead, deliberately lightening her tone.

He recoiled comically, raising a hand to his chest in mock horror – obviously trying to conceal any other emotion as well. “You wound me, Constance,” he declared. “Do you insinuate that you don’t believe in my success?”

She laughed and shook her head. “I do,” she assured him. “But it’s always a good idea to have a backup plan.”

D'Artagnan grinned. “If there is a Musketeer who should make a career of that, it’s Aramis,” he said, “so I’ll let him know he should keep that in mind.”

Constance raised an eyebrow. “Ah? How so?”

“'Stitches fine enough for the Queen’s chemise’ is what Porthos said,” he explained. “Of course, it was Porthos’s skin he was sewing up, not some shirt.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

Constance’s hand flew to her mouth, and she had to take a deep breath. “Uhm, good to know that it’s a useful skill for a Musketeer to have?” she said, a bit shakily. She was usually not squeamish but the image of Aramis stitching his friend back together after injury was not a pleasant one, not when the other Musketeers had become her friends, too, not only d'Artagnan’s.

He nodded and gave her another warm smile. “Don’t worry, he is alright,” he said gently. “And yes, it’s good to know that I might be able to help, too, if one of them gets hurt again. Though I would definitely prefer not to use that skill too much.” He gave the shirt in her hands a sour look. “Nor use it on my clothes so much, either.”

“Well, as I said, I can do it,” Constance repeated her earlier offer. “I don’t mind.” She looked him up and down. “Do you still have another one, or do you need it back urgently?”

He ducked his head shyly but she could still see that his cheeks were warming up again. “I still have another one,” he replied. “Thank you, then.”

She nodded, folding the shirt and draping it over her arm. Silence settled over them, and she knew she should feel more uncomfortable – she was standing in front of a half-clothed young man who was not her husband and not related to her in any way. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to mind.

D'Artagnan hesitated but finally said: “Well, then–” He made a gesture back at his room, and she started out of her reverie. “I’m going to finish dressing – I shouldn’t let Athos wait, he promised me some training.”

She nodded and took a step back but before she could turn and leave, d'Artagnan darted forward and took her hand, raising it to press a short kiss on her knuckles. “You are the best, Constance,” he said in a low voice.

Then he turned and went back into his room, closing the door behind him and leaving her standing in the hallway, her cheeks burning brightly.


	2. Day 2: Ice/cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Porthos hates the cold._

Porthos hates the cold. The others mostly assume it's because winter and snow are associated with such bad memories for Aramis, and Porthos is nothing if not empathic, his large heart bleeding for his friend. They are not entirely wrong, and Porthos never tells them that actually, snow doesn't bother him, it can be kind of pretty. He does better if they get to leave Paris, too, even if he wishes they didn't have to, for Aramis's sake.

But Paris, with its muddy, miserable streets in which the snow quickly turns into sludge, its closely clustered houses, its wet, clingy coldness, is a nightmare for him in this season.

He never tells them, though.

He doesn't tell them of the first winter after his mother died, of hiding in corners in the Court of Miracle's labyrinthine alleys and blowing onto his icy fingers to feel just a little bit of warmth. After Maman didn't wake up, men had come and taken her away and had told him to leave, that it was no longer their room. All he had then was a little place to sleep with a woman Maman had known, and she had told him he couldn't be there throughout the day.

So he was left to wander the Court alone, and he had stopped looking for Maman by then. She was dead, the woman said, and it felt strangely remote to know Maman was gone but he knew if she'd been able to wake up, she would have come and looked for him by now.

The cold was relentless, and Porthos only had a shirt and a thin jacket. His shoes had holes, and his trousers had been patched (by the woman Maman knew) so often he no longer remembered their original colour. He had stolen a pair of fingerless gloves on the market while the stall holder was arguing with his neighbour, and they were his most prized possession. He'd had to run from an older boy who wanted them so much that Porthos could no longer count how often. (He could only count to five, though.)

Sometimes he fell asleep in whatever hidey-hole he had found for the day, sheltering from the sharp wind howling in the narrow alleyways, and he dreamed that he just never woke up, and some men would come and take him away like Maman and tell some other poor kid that even if Porthos didn't need it any more, the kid couldn't have his hidey-hole, either.

Sometimes he fell asleep and dreamed that he was back with Maman, and she had found some money for wood, and they were sitting in front of a merrily burning fire, sharing some bread with sugar beet syrup on it, dark and sweet. Those were the dreams he didn't want to wake up from.

Sometimes he wondered if maybe he had truly fallen asleep like Maman and never woken up.

But he was lucky, in a way. He had his gloves, and at the end of the day, he could go to the woman Maman knew and settle down in the corner she gave him, and it wasn't warm but close enough.  
He got through it, somehow.

And the next winter, he had Charon and Flea, and together they were better. And warmer, when they found some spot for the night and curled up together like puppies, sharing their body heat. He had friends, and they stole better things together that kept them warm. Winter was survivable and even got tolerable, to an extent.

He still hates the cold, though. Because somewhere, deep inside, there is something left of a five-years-old boy wandering the streets alone, freezing and hungry.


	3. Day 5: Athos + sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and sleep and how his friends try to help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure if you can really call this a fic - it’s more like playing around with the topic in what’s basically a head canon. But I hope it’s enjoyable nonetheless :).

It was no secret that Athos and sleep were not the best of friends. A large part of his drinking was the desperate attempt to quiet his mind enough to allow him a few hours of sleeping like the dead, without the endless tossing and turning, punctured by the occasional nightmare, that usually marked his sleep. Often, if he had not succeeded in drinking enough, he chose to forego sleep entirely and kept himself awake and busy reading, cleaning his weapons or whatever else he could find for his hands and his mind to do.

Fortunately – or unfortunately – he had friends who were determined to help him take care of himself, and that included sleep. So whenever the weariness got too pronounced, the shadows beneath his eyes to deep, he inevitably found that the next evening, they insisted on accompanying him home and then refused to leave – or he simply came home to find them already there, doublets and boots discarded, greeting him as if it was the most natural thing for them to be here, shamelessly encroaching on his space.

Aramis wore him down with talking, cheerfully chatting about everything and nothing, wild stories about his dalliances or some past missions, as if he hadn't been there for at least half of them, while bullying him into bed and fussing like a mother hen. Once Athos was in bed, he crawled in after him and latched onto him as if Athos was his long-lost favourite stuffed doll from his childhood, and with the combination of arms around him and the chattering slowly trailing off into sleepy mumbles, Athos found his mind too occupied with fond annoyance to dwell on past regrets.

Porthos offered steady strength. He was quiet while he helped Athos getting ready for bed, big hands gently and deftly undoing ties and removing pieces of clothing. He always got into bed first, and Athos leaned against the broad chest and breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that Porthos did not sleep during those nights. And even though the enemy keeping him from sleep came from within, Athos slept better, knowing that his friend stood watch over him.

D'Artagnan offered a mix of big-eyed concern and farm boy practicality that was hard to resist. Athos could hardly argue with him about the importance of good sleep without sounding like a petulant child himself, so he usually resigned himself to going to bed rather quickly. The singing had been a surprise, though, the first time it happened. It was a song his mother had sung for him as a child, the Gascon revealed, and he was certain it would help Athos sleep. He took it in stride when the acerbic reply was that he'd go to sleep just so he wouldn't have to listen to d'Artagnan's terrible singing any more. But nevertheless, it warmed Athos's heart that his young friend was sharing something from his past with him to bring him comfort, and in turn, his own past weighed less on those nights.

Whoever did not end up in the bed with him – it was too narrow for more than two grown men, and with Porthos, even that was a tight fit – bedded down on the floor for the night, and when Athos woke the next morning, feeling decidedly more rested, he lay quietly and just took in the sight of the men who loved him, the friends who made him a better man, and something eased inside him.

Athos and sleep would never be on the best of terms with each other, but with men like those three helping him, some reconciliation was possible.


	4. Day 7: Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A birthday celebration for Porthos_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That went somewhere different than I had intended ... But one of my ultimate ships is Porthos/Happiness, so here is some of that, even if I spent it in Flea’s head.

“Come on, Flea,” Porthos complained, frowning behind the blindfold the petite girl had wrapped around his head. She had made one hilarious attempt at covering his eyes with her hands but had given up when it became clear that short of riding on his shoulders, she could not do so while making him walk to wherever she was taking him. So a scarf was covering his eyes instead. “You've made enough of a deal out of it. I promise I'll act really surprised about whatever this is, just take the damn scarf off.”

“You're impossible,” she grumbled back. “We're almost there, so quit whining.” She pulled him through a doorway and smiled at Charon who looked up at her entrance. He shot a mischievous grin back and then, when she stepped behind Porthos and pulled down the scarf from his face, he spread his arms wide and cried: “Welcome! Welcome, my dear friend – to your birthday festivities!”

Flea laughed at his theatrics and Porthos' dumbstruck face. They had done good work if she may say so herself. There was a big loaf of fresh bread, several pieces of cheese and sausages, some fruit, and of course the crowning achievement: A bottle of wine. All of this was spread out in a small nook in their favourite hideout which they had set up with some comfortable cushions made from blankets filled with straw.

Porthos took it all in and then grinned at them, a twinkle in his eyes. “That the reason you've brought home such slim purses the last few weeks?”

“Maaaybe,” Flea said, drawing out the length of the word. “Only the best for you, my love, after all,” she added, going on her tiptoes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So come on, let's celebrate!”

Turning back to Charon, she saw something flicker over his face but it was gone too quickly for her to be sure. Then he smiled and said: “You've heard your girl. Sit down and enjoy!”

Porthos didn't need to be told again and quickly took a seat, drawing Flea down with him. “Thank you,” he said, a touch tremulously, and Flea giggled. Her big-hearted Porthos – was it a success or a failure that they hadn't made him cry this year? In any case, she knew that he appreciated the lengths they were going to to make it a real birthday celebration. They were only orphans and thieves – but as the best thieves in the Court, stealing a birthday meal for their best friend was a worthy challenge.

Charon held out the wine bottle to Porthos. “Would you do the honour?”

Porthos took the bottle and broke off the neck a short bit below the cork, careful of the jagged edges as he poured some into one of the cups Charon held out. He passed one of the mismatched receptacles to Flea and gave the other to Porthos once he had put the bottle aside before raising his own. “To your health, Porthos!” he said. “Sixteen years and more to come!”

Porthos grinned and raised his cup as Flea did the same, adding: “May we be friends for all of them!”

The first swallow made her cough with the richness of it – they usually had their wine heavily diluted if they had any at all. But Charon and her had agreed that this wouldn't do for a real celebration. So she took a more cautious sip next as they all settled down and began passing around the food. And as the warmth of the drink spread through her and the food filled her belly, as her boys bantered and laughed, she thought that this was the best thing she wanted out of her life. It was Porthos's birthday celebration but it felt like celebrating all they had in this life, together.


	5. Day 13 - Favourite Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Constance has a bad dream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed a few prompts during the week, so getting back into writing for the weekend felt a bit clumsy at first. I hope to do a lot this weekend and catch up, though!
> 
> My favourite canon ship is Constagnan, so here's some angst/hurt/comfort for it. (Favourite non-canon ship is Porthos/happiness :D.)

D'Artagnan opened his eyes to inky darkness that told him unmistakably that dawn was still hours away. He lay still, wondering what had woken him. Not that he was a deep sleeper – the war had taken that ability from him, or what was left of it after enough missions with his brothers on the road. Still, he rarely woke if there wasn't at least something that his subconsciousness had noticed.

It took him a few moments to figure out that there was something he _wasn't_ hearing: his' wife's deep, even breathing from the other side of the bed. “Constance?” he asked softly and extended a hand towards her side of the bed. It only found empty air and rumpled bedclothes, and worry pooled in his belly. “Constance?” he repeated, slightly louder.

There was still no answer, and he cursed under his breath as he fumbled for the candle on his night stand, hands clumsily almost dropping his tinderbox. It felt like ages until he had lit the candle, and the small flame was casting its warm light over the bed. It was as empty as it had felt, and d'Artagnan's worry only deepened. Where was she?

Jumping to his feet, he grabbed his breeches and weapon belt. However, he had barely taken two steps when the items slipped from his grip as his eyes fell on his wife. “Constance!”

She was sitting in the corner of their room, curled into a ball, her legs pulled as tight to her chest as possible. Her hair was in a wild cloud around her head, and together with her position, her arms slung around her legs tightly, he could not see her face. She didn't even look up at her name being called.

He hurried over to her and dropped into a crouch in front of her, setting the candle aside. “Constance,” he said again, softly. “Please look at me. What's the matter?”

She shook her head without lifting it, her face pressed into her arms.

D'Artagnan looked at her, at a loss of what to do. One thing was clear: She was in distress, her shoulders so tight with tension it looked painful. “My love, please,” he cajoled, placing a hand on her arm and running his thumb over her cold skin. The other slipped under her hair to her neck, clasping it, and he was trying to will all his love and concern for her into the gesture. “It's alright, you're home, you're safe, and I'm here.”

It took a few minutes of soft touches and murmured words but finally, Constance uncurled a bit, raising her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes were red-rimmed in a pale face, and her lips trembled. D'Artagnan swallowed at the look of despair in her eyes. “I'm here, my love, I'm here,” he repeated, leaning forward to softly touch his forehead to hers. “You are not alone. Whatever it is, we can deal with it together.”

A sob tore from her throat, and she launched herself from her corner into his arms, pressing her face into his shoulder. “I keep dreaming that you're not here,” she said in a broken voice.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes and buried his hand in her hair, pulling her close. “But I am,” he said, “I am. And I'm not going anywhere.”

“No,” she said, “in the dream, _this_ is the dream. I wake up and you're gone, and there is a knock at the door ...” She pulled back and looked up at him, her eyes shining. “It's Athos, or Porthos, or Treville, and they've come to tell me that you'll never come back, that you were killed, that they don't even know what happened to you, that they were unable to bring back your body--”

He bent to kiss the tear tracks that had stained her cheeks. “Just a bad dream,” he murmured. “The war didn't take me, and it's true that I'm here. Can't you feel my heart beat?” He took her hand and laid it on his chest, right where his heart was beating.

She closed her eyes and placed her forehead against the back of her hand. “I feel so stupid and silly.” she whispered.

D'Artagnan shook his head. “Bad dreams are bad dreams,” he said, “and this one doesn't sound silly at all, on the contrary.” He sighed as he put his arms around her. “I knew that I didn't ask you for something easy when I asked you to be a soldier's wife but still … I'm sorry.”

Constance looked up to him and frowned. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she replied. “I knew that you were a Musketeer, and I would never want you to be otherwise.”

“Then just know that I would never want you to be otherwise, too.” D'Artagnan kissed the frown line between her brows. “And nothing that you fear or dream is stupid. But I am here, and I will gladly remind you at all times that this is real.”

Constance sighed and leaned forward against his chest again, her ear over his heart. “I do like the sound of that,” she finally murmured, and d'Artagnan was beyond glad to hear a lighter tone back in her voice. “I trust that you have some very good ideas how to do that?”

He smirked. “I'm sure I will think of something.”


End file.
